“Logan, your mom must miss not having you at home,” Mrs. Green says to him. “You’ve been there forever.”
“Actually, I was living above the restaurant most recently. With my brother.”
“Oh right. The apartment that little Jake Maverick used to live in when he disowned his mom because of all the drugs she kept taking,” Mrs. Green says lightly, even though her words are heavy and unnecessary. It’s not cool Mrs. Green is bringing up what seems to be a difficult past with me, a virtual stranger to Jake and his life.
“Mrs. Green I’m all for catching up with my new neighbor,” Logan says and his grip on my waist grows a little tighter. “But I really need to get Chloe out of this blizzard. She’s still a little dizzy from the fall.”
“Oh yes. Of course. Poor little sugar booger.” She pats the arm of my jacket. “I’m so glad I got home hours before the storm started so I could see you fall. You’d likely still be face down in the snow if it wasn’t for me.”
“Yes. Thanks for that Mrs. Green,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic. “See you later.”
She nods. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. I also want to talk to you about the petition. You haven’t signed yet.”
“Tomorrow it is, Mrs. Green. Have a good night.” Thankfully, Logan has already helped me turn back around and is leading me to the stairs.
“Goodnight Mrs. Green,” Logan calls over his shoulder.
“Nighty-Night Sugar Plum!” she sings back as she waddles back towards her house.
“Sugar Plum?” Logan repeats under his breath and his eyebrows raise.
“She been doing this thing lately where she gives everyone on the street nicknames. Sugar Plum is one of the better ones,” I explain as we slowly climb the stairs. “I’m sugar booger for godssake. Then there’s Mrs. Feinstein, who she doesn’t like because her cat poops in Mrs. Green’s garden, so she calls her Poopsy and her husband Poopsy-Doodle.”
“And what petition is she talking about?” Logan asks.
He doesn’t let go of me the entire time we’re walking up the stairs to my porch. My jumbled brain can’t help but think that it’s been a very long time since anyone has touched me this much. Especially a man. If only I could enjoy it. “She wants the neighbors to sign a petition against lawn decorations because, in case you haven’t noticed, the Carters at the end of the block on the left have fourteen garden gnomes, four ceramic farm animals, and a metal rooster on their front lawn.”
“I’d have to be blind not to notice,” Logan replies with a rumbling chuckle bubbling up from his broad chest.
“If Mrs. Green was blind, this neighborhood would be better off,” I mutter as the pounding in my head seems to go up a notch. “She’s in everyone’s business all the time.”
“Keys,” he requests as Boss starts barking inside the house.
“Not locked,” I explain. “I was just shoveling. I didn’t plan on leaving.”
“Right.” He reaches for the antique handle and swings the door open. Boss is right there in the entry, barking and snarling. He charges at Logan, his little nails clicking on the hardwood. He stops at his foot and sniffs and his tail automatically starts wagging. “Hey little buddy. Sorry I can’t stop and say a proper hello. Gotta take your mama to bed.” His eyes widen and he glances at me as the double-entendre in his words hits him. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” I try to smile. “And Boss probably doesn’t care what your intentions are, he’s just happy you’re here.”
“Where is Stevie?” Logan asks as I try to toe-off my boots and almost tip over. His arm snakes around my waist and pulls me against him.
“Stevie’s deaf so she doesn’t even know I’m home,” I explain. “Sometimes Boss will go over to her bed and wake her up. It’s the sweetest thing.”
Logan gently grabs my shoulders and looks at me, his stare intense and serious. “Okay, let’s get you into your room. Where is it?”
“Upstairs. Left. End of hall,” I mumble and try to remember if I picked up all my dirty laundry. I’m not the neatest person. Sometimes I leave yesterday’s clothes in a heap on the floor next to my side of the bed. I can’t remember if I picked up last night’s heap.
“How did you pick their names, by the way?” Logan asks.
“They’re named after musicians. Boss for Bruce Springsteen and Stevie for Stevie Nicks,” I say as we make our way up the stairs slowly.
“You like Springsteen? I do too,” he says and I can hear the smile in his voice, but I don’t dare turn my head to look at him because I know it’ll make me dizzy.
“Yeah Springsteen is good,” I say vaguely because I don’t want to tell him that it was actually my husband who named Boss. It’ll bring on a conversation I don’t want to have in the state I’m in.
Boss stays at the bottom of the stairs when I tell him to but he lets out a little bark of annoyance. “I’m going to have to let them out for a pee soon.”
“I’ll do it once you’re settled,” he promises. “I’m sleeping on the couch remember?”
“There are four bedrooms in this house so you might as well stay in one. All the beds are made and clean so take your pick,” I explain.
“This house is massive for just you,” Logan says, and he couldn’t be more right. But I blow it off the same way I always do when people bring it up, rather than explain everything.
“I’m banking on being that crazy old lady who fills her giant house with stray animals, so I’ll need the space,” I joke.
“Ah. The crazy cat lady. A classic.”
“Only with chihuahuas. Lots and lots of chihuahuas.”
“I like it. Taking a boring, antiquated stereotype and making it your own.” Logan chuckles, and my first thought is that the sound is deep and warm, which makes me think this concussion is serious. How can a sound be warm? My brain is definitely damaged.
My bedroom door is open, and when he flips on the overhead chandelier, I close my eyes and say a silent prayer my dirty underwear isn’t on display. “Okay. Do you want to lie down right away? I will have to ask you some questions before I let you sleep. And I’ll ask you questions every time I wake you up too. Make sure you’re coherent.”
I perch at the foot of the bed and touch my head again. “I’d really like to clean up a little. I think I look disgusting and I know I feel disgusting.”
His eyes sweep over me slowly, assessing. “I’ve seen worse.”
“You’ve seen dead people, so that’s hardly reassuring.”
He smiles. “I can help you to the bathroom, grab a wash cloth, and clean up the blood on your face.”
“I’d love to take a shower,” I say, and his smile disappears. “I’m freezing and my hair is caked to my head with blood. I can feel it.”
“You can’t shower by yourself Chloe,” he explains. “You might faint or get dizzy and slip.”
“Well, how else am I supposed to shower?” It’s a stupid question, and I’m not expecting an answer because there isn’t a logical one. But boy, do I get one.
“With me,” he says calmly and I stare at him, my mouth agape. “I mean with my help.”
“No,” I reply firmly. “I know you’re a medical professional and you see people’s body parts all the time, but you shouldn’t see mine. You can’t. There’s got to be some landlord-tenant rule that would break.”
“I was thinking you could put on a swimsuit.”
“Oh.”
“You own one?” I nod and he walks over to my dresser and points at it, raising an eyebrow.
“Third drawer, I think,” I tell him and at the same time realize that’s my underwear drawer. I close my eyes tightly and let that fact settle in—my hot tenant is riffling through my undies. Great.
Despite being embarrassed I don’t intend to do a thing about it. I like sitting still. It helps my head. After a minute, he pulls out my black and silver one-piece I used for aqua therapy after my car crash. “This?”
“Yeah.” I hold out my ha
nd and he gives me the suit.
He points to the door. “I’m going to let all the dogs out and bring Chewie back here. Do not try anything crazy. If you feel faint, lie down.”
I nod and he disappears. It takes me way longer than normal to get into the damn bathing suit. I keep getting dizzy and almost falling over, so I lie back on the bed and wiggle into it that way. Then I puke in the tiny trash bin by my dressing table. Luckily, there’s a plastic bag liner and I’m mostly dry-heaving because my stomach is empty. Oh my God, this is hell.
I make my way slowly back to my bed and lie across it, my feet still on the soft bedside rug to keep the dizziness at bay. I can hear him and the dogs outside the window, in the yard. He’s trying to coax Boss into going to the bathroom. I smile because Boss hates snow and his M.O. is to just stand there, frozen like a statue, glaring instead of doing his business.
Finally, I hear an, “Alright Boss! High-five!”
He must have peed. I laugh at Logan’s over-enthusiastic praise and the thought that he may have, in fact, tried to high-five my chihuahua. I close my eyes. I guess I dozed off because suddenly his hands are wrapped around my shoulders in a warm, firm grip. “Chloe?”
“Hi.”
“What’s my name?”
I blink. Thank God my vision is almost perfect now. “Logan Hawkins.”
“What day is it?”
“Friday… unless it’s after midnight then Saturday.” I start to sit up. He keeps his hands on me, guiding me. When I raise from the bed to a standing position, one of his hands goes to my waist. I look at him—really—for the first time since I woke up from my concussion cat-nap. Logan’s not wearing a shirt anymore. His wide, chiseled chest narrows into a stomach of washboard abs and his treasure trail is cut off by the waist band of navy board shorts with little silver skulls on them.
“You’re not wearing clothes,” I gasp. I didn’t mean to gasp I just couldn’t stop myself.
“I’m wearing a bathing suit too,” Logan says. “I figured when you said you didn’t want me to see you naked that also meant you didn’t want to see me naked. But if the statement was only one-sided, I could shower with you the way nature intended.”
Oh my God.
6
Logan
The look on her face makes me realize this is not the time to be funny. I am such an idiot. This woman doesn’t know me well enough to know when I’m kidding around. Man, maybe Jake is right when he keeps saying that if I don’t start dating soon, I’ll lose the ability to communicate with women. Maybe I already have.
“Kidding!” I say and force out an awkward chuckle. I feel her shoulders relax and she tries to laugh too, but it’s just as weird sounding as mine. “Let’s get you cleaned up so you can rest.”
The bathroom is gorgeous with a very big walk-in shower, which will make my job much easier here. “This bathroom is nice.”
“Thanks. I did the design and tiling myself but hired a plumber. Well, he did the work in trade for me building his website.” She winces. “I’m getting one hell of a headache.”
“I’m surprised it took this long,” I reply and drop the toilet seat lid so I can place her on it while I get the shower turned on and the temperature right.
She sits, and I turn to the shower. It’s got a rain head, a regular shower head, and a panel of jets built into the wall. There arefour different levers to turn and a bunch of buttons I could push. Not wanting to bug her for instructions, I lean over to examine it quickly and make a guess, turning the biggest lever at the top of the panel. The wall jets roar to life and hit me directly in the face and chest.
“Mother fucker!” I bellow and blindly start smacking at the panel. Now the only water pounding me is cold. Freezing cold. I stumble backwards. “Fuck!”
“Oh my God!” She stands up and starts to immediately tilt to the left. I dart from the shower and grab her shoulders to keep her from falling into the vanity. “Are you okay?”
“Are you?” I ask, blinking profusely as water drips into my eyes.
“Sorry, I should have explained the shower. It’s complicated,” she says and puts a hand on my bare wet chest to balance herself. Our eyes connect and we both start laughing. This time it’s a natural sound, nothing is forced. “This night can kiss my ass.”
“Mine too,” I say.
We stand there laughing for almost a minute. When we’re done, the atmosphere in the room, in between us, feels lighter. Less awkward and even a little intimate, like we’ve bonded. Chloe gives me some simple instructions for the shower, and in no time the water is warm and coming out of the right place. I help her into the stall.
“You can’t get your stitches wet,” I warn her. “Which is why I’m not turning on the rain head.”
“But my hair needs washing.” She sighs, disappointed as she steps towards the stream of water and closes her eyes. She wobbles, reaches for the wall, and opens them again. “It’s full of blood and grossness.”
I smile at her blunt description. “We’ll get it done.”
I slip in behind her, reach past her, and take the shower head out of the hook. I carefully start to spray her hair and gently put a hand just beside the cut to make sure the water doesn’t dribble onto the stitches. When her long, dark hair is saturated, I put the shower head back on the holder in front of her. “Lean on the wall for support.”
She leans her shoulder on the wall. I give myself a minute right then to realize she’s been through a hell of a lot and it’s not just tonight. When she told me about her previous injuries at the hospital, I was stunned. As a paramedic, I know a massive trauma had to cause those injuries, and that it’s a long, hard road to recovery. I scan the bottles on the recessed marble ledge until I find the shampoo bottle. I pick it up and squeeze some into my hand. A floral jasmine scent fills the air. Chloe hasn’t moved, and for a second, I think she might be asleep on her feet. “I’m going to wash your hair.”
“Okay…”
I lift my hand to the back of her head and tenderly start to lather in the shampoo. She’s tense, and to be honest, I am too. This isn’t the kind of caregiving I’m used to. I deal with open wounds and broken body parts, which sometimes requires a gentle touch, but this kind of care is different. This is intimate. I’m not used to it as a paramedic or sadly, I realize, as a man anymore. God it’s been a while since I’ve been this close to a woman in so little clothes. I haven’t really missed it or given it a thought to be honest. I’ve been too focused on other things like my son River, my family’s business, and staying sober. But now, it suddenly feels like a long time.
Her hair is silky and slippery in my hands as I rub her scalp with my fingertips, and she tilts her head back a little bit and sighs. I feel a ripple of lust spread through me. She’s gorgeous. And this…despite the medical necessity…is hot as hell when I think about it. So I force myself to stop thinking about it.
“I’ve never had a man wash my hair,” she confesses in a small whisper.
“I’ve never had a man do it either,” I joke and she lets out a soundless laugh that shakes her narrow shoulders. “And I’ve never done it before so let me know if I hurt you or something.”
“It feels incredible.” She sighs again, and I am startled by the fact that this is probably satisfying me as much as it is her. I’m almost disappointed when I have to take the shower head off the wall and rinse.
“How are you feeling?” I ask softly when I’m done.
“Better than before,” she responds. “Thank you.”
I take a tentative step back. “I’m going to let you do whatever else you need to do. I’m right here if you need me.”
She nods and reaches for the face wash and carefully washes her face, avoiding the stitches. She wobbles a little bit as she washes it off, and I reach toward her but she steadies herself with a hand on the marble wall. She turns off the water and turns toward me. I’ve already reached for her towel from the rack across from the shower. She takes it from me with a gratef
ul smile. “There’s more under the sink. Grab one for yourself.”
I step out and grab a fluffy, gray towel I can’t help but notice is the color of her eyes. I unfold it and towel off my chest. As I tie it around my waist, I notice she’s staring at my naked torso, and if I didn’t know better, I would swear her eyes are following a water drop I missed that is slowly making its way over my pec and down my stomach. It feels good to have her look at me. Like I’m a hibernating bear emerging from a cave, and her stare is as warm as the sun.
Then our eyes meet and she blushes and turns away. I finally find my voice again as we make our way back into the bedroom. Her steps are slow but steady. “I’ll stand right outside your bedroom door, so just yell if you need any help at all. I know you’re modest, but I’ve seen more body parts than I can count, and this is a professional situation.”
“I’ll be fine,” she assures me as she closes the bedroom door behind me but leaves it cracked just the slightest. I lean against the wall beside the door frame and wait. I hear dresser drawers opening and closing and the bed creaks for a moment.
“Are you from Maine?” I ask. “I know you’re new to Ocean Pines..”
“I’m from Hawaii.” Chloe replies. “But been in Ocean Pines for years now.”
“Seriously?” I can’t believe I haven’t seen her before.
“Are you more shocked I’ve lived here, undetected, for years or that I left Hawaii?” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Everyone finds it hard to believe I’d leave sunny, exotic Hawaii for stormy, cold Maine.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a common trend,” I reply. I know she’s walking somewhere in the room because the floor boards creek. “But I’ve always loved Maine. Even in the winter. Maine might not have palm trees and leis, but it’s got pine trees and lobster rolls, and that’s my jam.”
She laughs again, and the door opens fully. She’s in a sweatshirt and red plaid flannel pajama bottoms. Her long damp hair is swept up in a loose bun. Her clean face only makes the nasty gash on her head look nastier. It’s red and inflamed. I reach up and gently touch the edges, examining the stitching. She grimaces lightly and my fingers pull away. “It’s going to leave a scar, isn’t it?”
The Winter We Collided: A Small Town Single Dad Romance (Ocean Pines Series Book 2) Page 5